If Even Havoc From the Heavens

A person I know gave up their Dreams and is now living a happy and fulfilling life. 

The added sixth of a chord is an increasingly bull's-eye solution to a mental ear problem I've been having.

Heroism in Scandinavian mythologies shakes within me more so than that of other cultures' stories. 

Is "Head Over Feet" by Alanis Morissette one of the best popular love songs ever? 

Should I just give in to sleep and attempt this blog again tomorrow?

If I had a million dollars for each month spanning this post and the prior, I would be a quasi-nonomillionaire, and could retire for–well, not as much in the old days, now that, thanks to inflation, time isn't worth what it once was. You would have my apologies, if I believed it were my duty to process posts at regulated speed; the sorries would be for me anyway, since this is mainly for myself. Name check this blog's title. 

There is upon my desk a stuffed frog of love, an amphibian of Valentine's, that I bought when I worked at Walmart, because his face mirrored mine so well in its dejected sense of "so, this is what my life has come to be?" A common enough facial setup these days: a slant of straight mouth line slightly askew, and eyes looking into the distance, as though one were looking across some sunny wideness of plains and wondered where all the stuff was. Every now and then I would look at this forlorn frog and sigh an agreement, and then return to my dear, Netflix.

Are we born a clean slate of plains or mountains? My own story makes the plains personally important; I'm sure you can figure yourself out. Unlike some people, or most people–I don't know, I don't speak for the people–I am fascinated by these vast stretches of land. I have several times traveled I-55 between St. Louis and Chicago, and I am rarely bored from simply staring out the window. One of the earliest dreams I remember having involved me, little child I was, being sucked out the window of our moving car and into the mysterious fields, entering some kind of Midwestern Wonderland. Anyway, what do I find alluring? The solitary things that appear neither suddenly nor slowly, but at your own pace, whether rising from the horizon or peeking round the imaginary corners we build in our moving space. Or awake, and after gazing about you see a loner tree; then connect-the-dots to a stream nearby; cast the line further into the years, as the stream supports a shelter, which brings in more refugees, who build further and further for the city they themselves project in the future. It is a city of streams, for these refugees have only their sadness for materials; it is a city called in the tall-tales Dodge, for people are always getting outta it. Sleep again, and wake again, but now eye a different patch of sky, where naught but dirt is considered population. Here will other refugees settle, but they will hit pay dirt, for it is fertile; and they will hit pay dirt because they are refugees to and not from: they are the hardy folk, and they build a city of constant directions, for their materials are visions and hopes and dreams. Oh, but will it withstand the weather of the plains? What wanderers will find themselves in your plains, and what shall they find, and what shall they add? Just as most gatherings of hovels never become more, so to will loss fall about. Just as aged and aging farming towns stick to the country lands, so to will the strong feelings wither about. But benefit is every when, and who is to deny a thing its springtime, even though it should happen in winter?

Hey, though, the spring of my soul is aligned with the spring of the times, and as harvest begins, I can early-call a bounty of a good year, a year that could weather the bad times of January and any possible difficulties of these last months. If even havoc from the heavens, 2014 is a better year than 2013. Survival blossoms into thriving. Wandering ivy clambers towards the sun. There is direction in more and more sensibilities. 

This is the crop yielded from six months of love. Reader, i.e., myself, he loves me, he is here, fa la la la fa la. And I sing, how I do sing, in return as well, "he loves thee." Into the char and ash of my smoldering bitterness he happened, and now the greenery has returned, and forecast into the bleak midwinter it will continue. A charge zings through these plains within, and all locales are electrified. Are those new windows in the small town store? Is that a new family renovating the rundown farmstead? Now is the tingle of possibility before blossom.

Two months ago I got another person to call niece, and a few weeks ago she was over here. Considering her size, the stuffed toy I thought most appropriate was the forlorn frog on my desk. Since then, he has not made his way back. 

There is a new sound trying to find its way out in my (instrumental) music, and the plaintive qualities of the added 6th are intriguing to the point of being decided upon.

And perhaps the Dream wasn't necessarily abandoned; for me, just as I was giving up again, my dream was revived unexpectedly.

Finally, cynics beware: from the moment he walked in the joint, he had already won me over.